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  Harper was crying, tears running down his cheeks. So much innocence, so much waste, as if a baby had earned this. Kearsey stood there, with Teresa, and neither cried. The Major flicked at his moustache. 'Terrible. Awful.'

  'So is what they do to the French.' Sharpe surprised himself by saying it, but it was true. He remembered the naked prisoners, wondered how the other captured Hussars had died.

  'Yes.' Kearsey used the tone of a man trying to avoid an argument.

  The girl looked at Sharpe and he saw she was holding back tears, her face rigid with an anger that was frightening. Sharpe swatted at a fly. 'Where's the gold?'

  Kearsey followed him, spurs clicking on stone, and pointed at a stone slab that was flush with the hermitage floor. The building was not used for services. Even despite the ravages worked by the Poles it had the air of disuse, of being little more than storage for the village cemetery. It was a place that was consecrated only to death. The Major poked the stone slab with his toe. 'Under there.'

  'Sergeant!'

  'Sir!'

  'Find a bloody pick! Smartly!"

  There was a comfort in orders, as if they could recall a war in which small babies did not die. He looked at the slab engraved with the name Moreno and beneath the letters an ornate and eroded coat of arms. Sharpe tried to forget the sound of the bodies being dragged outside. He tapped his toe on the shield.

  'Noble family, sir?'

  'What? Oh.' Kearsey was subdued. 'I don't know, Sharpe. Perhaps once.'

  The girl had her back to them and Sharpe realized that this was her family's vault. It made Sharpe wonder, with an irritating gesture, where his own body would finally rest. Beneath the ashes of some battlefield, or drowned like the poor reinforcements in their transport ships? 'Sergeant!'

  'Sir?'

  'Where's that pick?'

  Harper kicked at the debris left by the Poles, then grunted and stooped. He had the pick, minus its handle, and he thrust it into the gap between the stones. He heaved, the veins on his face standing out, and with a shudder the slab moved, lifted, and there was a space large enough for Sharpe to slide a piece of broken stone beneath.

  'You men!' Faces looked round from the door of the hermitage. 'Come here!'

  Teresa had gone to a second door, opening into the cemetery, and stood there as if she was not interested. Harper found another spot, levered again, and this time it was easier and there was enough space for a dozen hands to take hold of the slab and pull it from the floor, swinging it like a trapdoor, while Kearsey fussed that they would let it fall and bequeath to the Morenos a broken vault. Dark steps led down into the blackness. Sharpe stood at the top, claiming the right to be first down.

  'Candle? Come on, someone! There's got to be a candle!'

  Hagman had one in his pack, a greasy but serviceable stump, and there was a pause while it was lit. Sharpe stared into the blackness. Here was where Wellington's hopes were pinned? It was ludicrous.

  He took the candle and began the slow descent into the tomb and to a different kind of smell. This was not a sweet smell, not rank, but dusty because the bodies had been here a long time, some long enough for the coffins to have collapsed and to show the gleam of dry bones. Others were newer, still intact, the stonework below their niches stained with seeping liquid, but Sharpe was not looking at coffins. He held the miserable light high, sweeping it round the small space and saw, bright in the corruption, the flash of metal. It was not gold, just a discarded piece of brass that had once bound the corner of a casket.

  Sharpe turned to look at Kearsey. 'There's no gold.'

  'No.' The Major looked round, as if he might have missed sixteen thousand gold coins on the empty floor. 'It's gone.'

  'Where was it stored?' Sharpe knew it was hopeless, but he would not give up.

  'There. Where you are.'

  'Then where's it gone, sir?'

  Kearsey sniffed, drew himself up to his full height. 'How would I know, Sharpe? All I know is that it is not here.' He sounded almost vindicated.

  'And where's Captain Hardy?' Sharpe was angry. To have come this far, for nothing.

  'I don't know.'

  Sharpe kicked the vault's wall, a petty reaction, and swore. The gold gone, Hardy missing, Kelly dead and Rorden dying. He put the candle on the ledge of a niche and bent down to look at the floor. The dust had been disturbed by long, streaking marks, and he congratulated himself ironically for guessing that the smears had been made when the gold was removed. The knowledge was not much use now. The gold was gone. He straightened up.

  'Could El Catolico have taken it?'

  The voice came from above them, from the top of the steps, and it was a rich voice, deep as Kearsey's but younger, much younger. 'No, he could not.' The owner of the voice wore long grey boots and a long grey cloak over a slim silver scabbard. As he descended the steps into the dim light, he proved to be a tall man with dark, thin good looks. 'Major. How good to see you back.'

  Kearsey preened himself, flicked at his moustache, gestured at Sharpe. 'Colonel Jovellanos, this is Captain Sharpe. Sharpe, this is -'

  'El Catolico.' Sharpe's voice was neutral, no pleasure in the meeting.

  The tall man, perhaps three years older than Sharpe, smiled. 'I am Joaquim Jovellanos, once Colonel in the Spanish army, and now known as El Catolico.' He bowed slightly. He seemed amused by the meeting. 'They use my name to frighten the French, but you can see that I am really harmless.' Sharpe remembered the man's extraordinary speed with the sword, his bravery in facing the French charge alone. The man was far from harmless. Sharpe noticed the hands, long-fingered, that moved with a kind of ritual grace when he gestured. One of them was offered to Sharpe. 'I hear you rescued my Teresa.'

  'Yes.' Sharpe, as tall as El Catolico, felt lumpish beside the Spaniard's civilized languor.

  The other hand came from behind the cloak, briefly touched Sharpe's shoulder. 'Then I am in your debt.' The words were given the lie by eyes that remained watchful and wary. El Catolico moved back and smiled deprecatingly as if in admission that Spanish manners could be a trifle flowery. A slim hand gestured at the tomb. 'Empty.'

  'So it seems. A lot of money.'

  'Which it would have been your pleasure to carry for us.' The voice was like dark silk. 'To Cadiz?'

  El Catolico's eyes had not left Sharpe. The Spaniard smiled, made the same gesture round the vault. 'Alas, it cannot be. It is gone.'

  'Do you know where?' Sharpe felt like a grubby street-sweeper in the presence of an exquisite aristocrat.

  The eyebrows went up. 'I do, Captain. I do.'

  Sharpe knew he was being tantalized, but ploughed on. 'Where?'

  'Does it interest you?' Sharpe did not reply and El Catolico smiled again. 'It is our gold, Captain, Spanish gold.'

  'I'm curious.'

  'Ah. Well, in that case, I can relieve your curiosity. The French have it. They captured it two days ago, along with your gallant Captain Hardy. We captured a straggler who told us so.'

  Kearsey coughed, looked to El Catolico as if for permission to speak, and received it. 'That's it, Sharpe. Hunt's over. Back to Portugal.'

  Sharpe ignored him, continued to stare at the watchful Spaniard. 'You're sure?'

  El Catolico smiled, raised amused eyebrows, spread his hands. 'Unless our straggler lied. And I doubt that.'

  'You prayed with him?'

  'I did, Captain. He went to heaven with a prayer, and with all his ribs removed, one by one.' El Catolico laughed.

  It was Sharpe's turn to smile. 'We have our own prisoner. I'm sure he can deny or confirm your straggler's story.'

  El Catolico pointed a finger up the stairs. 'The Polish Sergeant? Is that your prisoner?'

  Sharpe nodded. The lies would be nailed. 'That's the one.'

  'How very sad.' The hands came together with a graceful hint of prayerful regret. 'I cut his throat as I arrived. In a moment of anger."

  The eyes were not smiling, whatever the mouth did, and Sharpe knew this was no
t the moment to accept, or even acknowledge, the delicate challenge. He shrugged, as if the death of the Sergeant meant nothing to him, and followed the tall Spaniard up the steps and into the hermitage that was noisy with newcomers who quietened as their leader appeared. Sharpe stood, in the thick, sweet smell, and watched the grey-cloaked man move easily among his followers: the figure of a leader who disbursed favour, reward, and consolation.

  A soldier, Sharpe knew, was judged not merely by his actions but by the enemies he destroyed, and the Rifleman's fingers reached, unconsciously, for his big sword. Nothing had been admitted, nothing openly said, but in the gloom of the vault, in the wreckage of British hopes, Sharpe had found the enemy, and now, in the scent of death, he groped for the way to victory in this sudden, unwanted, and very private little war.

  CHAPTER 10

  The rapier moved invisibly, one moment on Sharpe's left, the next, as if by magic, past his guard and quivering at his chest. There was enough pressure to bend the blade, to feel the point draw a trace of blood; then El Catolico stepped backwards, flicked the slim blade into a salute, and took up his guard again.

  'You are slow, Captain.'

  Sharpe hefted his blade. 'Try changing weapons.'

  El Catolico shrugged, reversed his blade, and held it to Sharpe. Taking the heavy cavalry sword in return, he held it level, turned his wrist, and lunged into empty air. 'A butcher's tool, Captain. En garde!'

  The rapier was as delicate as a fine needle, yet even with its balance, its responsiveness, he could do nothing to pierce El Catolico's casual defence. The Partisan leader teased him, led him on, and with a final contemptuous flick he beat Sharpe's lunge aside and stopped his hand half an inch before he would have laid open Sharpe's throat.

  'You are no swordsman, Captain.'

  'I'm a soldier.'

  El Catolico smiled, but the blade moved just enough to touch Sharpe's skin before the Spaniard dropped the sword on the ground and held out a hand for his own blade.

  'Go back to your army, soldier. You might miss the boat.'

  'The boat?' Sharpe bent down, pulled his heavy blade towards him.

  'Didn't you know, Captain? The British are going. Sailing home, Captain, leaving the war to us.'

  'Then look after it. We'll be back.'

  Sharpe turned away, ignoring El Catolico's laugh, and walked towards the gate leading into the street. He was in the ruins of Moreno's courtyard, where Knowles had smashed the volleys into the lancers, and all that was left were bullet marks on the scorched walls. Cesar Moreno came through the gate and stopped. He smiled at Sharpe, raised a hand to El Catolico, and looked round as if frightened that someone might be listening.

  'Your men, Captain?'

  'Yes?'

  'They're ready.'

  He seemed a decent enough man, Sharpe thought, but whatever power and prowess he had once had seemed to have drained away under the twin blows of his wife's death and his daughter's love for the overpowering young El Catolico. Cesar Moreno was as grey as his future son-in-law's cloak: grey hair, grey moustache, and a personality that was a shadow of what he had once been. He gestured towards the street.

  'I can come with you?'

  'Please.'

  It had taken a full day to clear up the village, to dig the graves, to wait while Private Rorden died, the agony unbearable, and now they walked to where he and the other dead of the Company would be buried, out in the fields. El Catolico walked with them, seemingly with inexhaustible politeness, but Sharpe sensed that Moreno was wary of his young colleague. The old man looked at the Rifleman.

  'My children, Captain?'

  Sharpe had been thanked a dozen times, more, but Moreno explained again.

  'Ramon was ill. Nothing serious, but he could not travel. That was why Teresa was here, to look after him.'

  'The French surprised you?'

  El Catolico interrupted. 'They did. They were better than we thought. We knew they would search the hills, but in such strength? Massena is worried."

  'Worried?'

  The grey-cloaked man nodded. 'His supplies, Captain, all travel on roads to the south. Can you imagine what we will do to them? We ride again tomorrow, to ambush his ammunition, to try to save Almeida.' It was a shrewd thrust. El Catolico would risk his men and his life to save Almeida when the British had done nothing to rescue the Spanish garrison of Ciudad Rodrigo. He turned his most charming smile on Sharpe. 'Perhaps you will come? We could do with those rifles of yours.'

  Sharpe smiled back. 'We must rejoin our army. Remember? We might miss the boat.'

  El Catolico raised an eyebrow. 'And empty-handed. How sad.'

  The guerrilla band watched them pass in silence. Sharpe had been impressed by them, by their weaponry, and by the discipline El Catolico imposed. Each man, and many of the women, had a musket and bayonet, and pistols were thrust into their belts alongside knives and the long Spanish swords. Sharpe admired the horses, the saddlery, and turned to El Catolico.

  'It must be expensive.'

  The Spaniard smiled. It was as easy as parrying one of Sharpe's clumsier lunges. 'They ride for hatred, Captain, of the French. Our people support us.'

  And the British give you guns, Sharpe thought, but he said nothing. Moreno led them past the castillo, out into the field.

  'I'm sorry, Captain, that we cannot bury your man in our graveyard.'

  Sharpe shrugged. The British could fight for Spain, but their dead could not be put in a Spanish cemetery in case the Protestant soul would drag all the others down to hell. He stood in front of the Company, looked at Kearsey, who stood by the graves in his self-appointed role of chaplain, and nodded to Harper.

  'Hats off!'

  The words rang thin in the vastness of the valley. Kearsey was reading from his Bible, though he knew the words by heart, and El Catolico, his face full of compassion, nodded as he listened. 'Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down.' And where's the gold? Sharpe wondered. Was it likely that the French, having killed the old and young, smashed the crucifix, smeared excreta on the walls of the hermitage, would carefully replace the stone lid of the family tomb? High over the valley an exaltation of larks tumbled in their song flight, and Sharpe looked at Harper. The Sergeant was looking up, at his beloved birds, but as Sharpe watched him the Irishman glanced at his Captain and away. His face had been impassive, unreadable, and Sharpe wondered what he had found. He had asked him to look round the village, explaining nothing but knowing that the Sergeant would understand.

  'Amen!' The burial service was over and Kearsey glared at the Company. 'The salute, Captain!'

  'Sergeant!'

  'Company!' The words rang out confidently, discipline in chaos, the muskets rising together, the faces of the men anonymous in the ritual. 'Fire!'

  The volley startled the larks, drifted white smoke over the graves, and the decencies had been done. Sharpe would have buried the men without ceremony, but Kearsey had insisted, and Sharpe acknowledged that the Major had been right. The drill, the old pattern of command and obey, had reassured the men, and Sharpe had heard them talking, quietly and contentedly, about marching back to the British lines. The trip across the two rivers, out into enemy country, was being called a 'wild-chicken chase', diverting and dangerous but not part of the real war. They were missing the Battalion, the regular rations, the security of a dozen other battalions on the march, and the thought of gold that had once excited them was now seen in perspective, as another soldier's dream, like finding an unlooted wine shop full of pliant women.

  Kearsey marched across to stand beside Sharpe. He faced the Company, the Bible still clasped in his hand. 'You've done well. Very well. Difficult countryside and a long way from home. Well done.' They stared back at him with the blank look soldiers keep for encouraging talks from unpopular officers. 'I'm sorry that you must go back empty-handed, but your efforts have not been in vain. We have shown, together, that we do care about the Spani
sh people, about their future, and your enthusiasm, your struggle, will not be forgotten.'

  El Catolico clapped, beamed at the Company, smiled at Kearsey. Sharpe's Company stared at the two men as if wondering what new indignity would be heaped on them, and Sharpe suppressed a smile at the thought of the Spanish people remembering the enthusiasm and struggle of Private Batten.

  Kearsey flicked at his moustache. 'You will march tomorrow, back to Portugal, and El Catolico, here, will provide an escort.'

  Sharpe kept his face straight, hiding his fury. Kearsey had told him none of this.

  The Major went on. 'I'm staying, to continue the fight, and I hope we will meet again.' If he had expected a cheer he was disappointed.

  Then, as El Catolico had visited the burial of the British dead, it was the officers' turn to stand in the walled graveyard as the dead villagers were put into a common grave. El Catolico had a tame priest, a moth-eaten little man, who rushed through the service as Sharpe, Knowles, and Harper stood awkwardly by the high wall. The French had been here, too, as disturbed graves and burst-open sepulchres showed. The dead had been reburied, the damage patched up, but Sharpe wondered yet again at the savagery of such a war.

  He looked at Teresa, dressed in black, and she gave him one of her unconcerned stares, as if she had never seen him before, and he told himself that there was already enough trouble looming on the horizon without planning to pursue El Catolico's woman. The Spanish officer, his sword still tucked under his arm, caught the glance Teresa gave Sharpe and he smiled slightly, or at least twitched the corners of his mouth, as if he recognized Sharpe's desire and pitied him for wanting something as unattainable as Teresa. Sharpe remembered the golden body running up the rocks, the shadows on the skin, and he knew he would as soon give up his search for the gold as give up his desire for the girl.

  Harper crossed himself, the hats went on, and people stirred in the graveyard. Ramon limped over to Sharpe and smiled.

  'You go tomorrow?'

  'Yes.'

  'I am sad.' He was genuine, the one friendly face in Casatejada. He pointed to Sharpe's rifle. 'I like it.'